Last night I realized that Christmas is like a great painting that the artist labors on. He unveils it, the people flock around and celebrate it, and then after a few weeks they burn it. Maybe with injunctions to themselves to keep the spirit of beauty in their hearts year around.

Whether that approach to art would be better or worse than ours is a question.

One can imagine a traveler, one of us, asking why those people burn the art? Why, they say, what do you do?

Our art consists of muddy blocks of paint, our traveler would reply. We put them by the thousands in large buildings where nobody goes.

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